


hands

by belovedmuerto



Series: In Your Head [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, M/M, POV Second Person, bucky pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 18:19:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10444176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: You take his hand in your hands.





	

You take his hand in your hands. He glances at you, out of the corner of his eye, like he’s trying not to startle you, and smiles down at the book he’s been reading. 

You look at your hands all together, two flesh, one not. Not really real, not really yours. Not all the time, anyway. You’re better at thinking of it as yours now, as belonging to you, than you were before.

You’re getting better at being a person. 

Some days are still a struggle. 

Today has been one of those days. 

The whole week has been, in some way or another. 

Today, you have no words. Not in any language; they’re more or less just not there. It has happened before, enough so that you don’t go into a panic when it occurs. It’s probably a good thing that you live with him, because he almost always seems to know what you need or what you’re trying to say, even when you have no words at all, so it’s less frustrating than it could be.

You’re having a memory now. 

You think you are, anyway. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Sometimes the past superimposes itself over the present, and you look at him and see him all small again, skinny and sick, and it makes you cling to him, and the cognitive dissonance between how he looks and how he feels in your arms is really hard to deal with, no matter how many times you tell yourself that he’s still real, and still here, even if your eyes are playing tricks on you.

You look down at his hand, in your hands, and you trace your fingers along his. His hand twitches and you look up at him.

“Tickles,” he says, and you feel yourself blushing. That’s not what you’d meant to do. You lift your shoulder in a sort of apology, and he nods in understanding.

The memory is still there, right behind your eyes; his hands like claws, from the cold maybe? Aching, aching with it, and you. Touching him. With purpose, with intent to-- what?

You turn his hand in yours, and spread his fingers out, lay your thumbs along his palm and press down, just a little. 

When you look at him, he is smiling again, that soft smile he is so free with, around you. He nods again.

“Yeah, Buck. You used to massage my hands sometimes. Do you remember?”

You tilt your head. Yes? No? He knows you can’t say right now. 

Apparently you are having a true memory, right now.

You press your thumbs into his skin, into the muscle below, and spread them, push into the muscles, but not too hard.

“You can do more pressure,” he says, quiet.

You are sitting very close, and it is easy to follow his instructions, press more firmly. You can feel the muscles beneath his skin, the calluses from working out, from throwing and catching the shield. He hums a little. Approval, perhaps.

He puts down the book he has been reading, open and face down to save his page. The spine of the book is cracked in several places; you sympathize. He turns a little, his knees bumping into your knees, and it makes it easier for you to massage his hand, his wrist, his forearm.

Your arms used to ache, you think. You can’t make the words form in your mouth, though. But you can look at him with a question, and he understands.

“Yeah, my arms used to hurt sometimes,” he agrees. “Along with everything else. You’d do this. It helped.”

You look back at his hand in your hands, press it between both of yours for a moment, and then pick up the other hand. He shifts a little more, to be more comfortable maybe, and you give this hand the same treatment as the other.

He watches you, the whole time. 

You look at what you’re doing.

You don’t speak.

You both breathe, in tandem.

Maybe your hearts are beating in tandem too.

When you’re finished, you hold his hand in your hands for a moment, just holding. You don’t look at him when you lift his hand and press his palm to your cheek.

His hand twitches, between your hand and your cheek, and he takes a deep breath. You listen to him letting it out slowly. 

You don’t look at him.

You don’t look at him.

You don’t look at him.

His thumb moves, just a hair, presses into your skin just enough that you feel it there, and it is your turn to take in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

You lift your head and meet his eyes.


End file.
